The Quarantine Station

by Michelle Montebello

  ‘So where to from here?’ he asked, hands jammed into his pockets as though that might fend off the awkwardness.

  ‘This is goodbye, I guess.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Thanks for everything.’

  He didn’t respond.

  She gave him her bravest smile and turned away before he could see her eyes fill and the crack in her resolve. Before he could see just how much she wanted to run back to him, no matter how wrong it was.

  Rose

  1918

  Christmas Eve was hot and humid. It was a first for Rose, not used to moving through such stagnant heat or better still, trying to sleep through it while four months pregnant.

  She spent the evening with Thomas in his cottage, the windows thrown open trying to catch the breeze off the water. They ate cold roast beef, potatoes and Christmas pudding purloined from Mrs March’s larder. They drank glasses of eggnog followed by gin until they were giddy. After dinner, Thomas suggested they open presents.

  ‘I hope you didn’t spend too much,’ Rose said as she climbed onto the bed.

  ‘Just a little of our savings,’ he said, winking.

  While he was busy at the wardrobe, she slipped her hands beneath the bed and pulled out three wrapped presents she’d hidden under there earlier.

  Thomas joined her on the coverlet with similarly wrapped gifts.

  ‘I’ll go first,’ she said, handing hers to him. ‘Merry Christmas, my love.’

  His face lit up as he accepted the packages and tore the red paper from each, revealing inside a new leather tool bag, a bottle of single malt whiskey and a model-build kit for a 96th Aero Squadron Fighter plane, an exact replica of the one that had fought over the Western Front.

  ‘Oh, Rose.’ He looked genuinely delighted with each of them. ‘You are so kind. I love them.’

  ‘And I love you.’ She leant across the bed to kiss him.

  ‘Now it’s my turn,’ he said. There were four gifts in total and he handed her the first three.

  She tore the wrapping off each. Inside were a new set of diaries with matching keys and fountain pens, a simple gold necklace in a velvet pouch and Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. Never had she received an abundance of such thoughtful gifts and her heart swelled.

  Thomas had the fourth gift in his hand, a small black velvet box, which he held out to her. It wasn’t wrapped and Rose’s breath caught.

  ‘This, my darling, is something I’ve been wanting to give to you for some time now.’ He looked nervous as he said it. ‘May I open it for you?’

  ‘Please,’ she said breathlessly.

  He tilted the box and opened the lid. Inside, on a white satin bed was a small diamond engagement ring. ‘Rose, you would make me the happiest man in the world if you would be my wife.’

  She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. ‘Of course I will be your wife. Nothing would make me happier!’ She looked down at the ring and touched the tiny diamonds with her fingertips. ‘It’s glorious, Thomas.’

  ‘I’m glad you like it.’

  ‘However did you get it?’

  ‘I ordered it from Hardy Brothers in Melbourne. It arrived a few days ago. I had to beg with my life for it not to be put through the autoclaves.’

  ‘Hardy Brothers?’ Rose looked at the exquisite ring, diamonds catching the lamp light. ‘They’re a reputable jeweller. This must have cost a lot of money.’

  ‘It was worth it, my love.’

  She kissed him again, slowly, tenderly, her heart bursting with joy. Thomas prised the ring from the box and slipped it onto her finger. It fit perfectly as though it had been made for her.

  ‘It’s so beautiful. What a shame I won’t be able to leave it here,’ she said, inspecting the ring, her happiness tinged briefly with reality. ‘I could never let the others see it.’

  He held up the plain gold necklace he’d given her earlier. ‘Will you settle for wearing it around your neck, hidden beneath your dress?’

  Rose smiled. Ever was he practical. ‘I will. It would stay close to my heart.’

  She slipped the ring off her finger and threaded it onto the gold chain. Thomas fixed it around her neck and she could feel the cool metal of the ring against her skin. They were edging closer to their dream, a glimmer of a future she could almost touch. The tips of her fingers were upon it.

  They cleared away the presents and fell back into bed, kicking off the sheets and making love until the stars dulled and the sky grew pale.

  Afterwards, they lay awake and Thomas, as always, grew enthralled with her stomach. Rose had begun to feel the tiniest ripples inside, like a stone being skimmed across calm water. It was nothing that Thomas could feel from the outside yet, just the private internal correspondence between a mother and her unborn baby.

  Christmas Day offered no reprieve for Rose. While Thomas and many of the ground’s staff had been granted all or part of the day off, Rose woke early as usual, washed and dressed for service with the duke and duchess.

  The royals had been invited to the dining room to enjoy celebrations with the other first-class passengers. There was going to be a visit from Santa and a great fruit tower which Mrs March had been agonising over since dawn. But they had declined, preferring to take their meals in their cottage, which meant Rose had to work a full day in service.

  The morning dawned hot and still. Even the bush lacked the sounds of wildlife. Sweat appeared instantly on Rose’s brow when she stepped out of Thomas’s cottage and set down the path towards the station.

  Sometimes, when she closed her eyes, she thought of London. She could see the frost rising from people’s breath, the layers of threadbare hats and coats, the frigid air as it sparkled with snow. It made her heart ache in hope that London had recovered from the war, that the new year would bring peace and prosperity and that her family were warm and fed, wherever they may be.

  Rose arrived at the kitchen as the early sun beat fiercely down. The parlourmaids were already in the dining room setting up for breakfast. She bid Mrs March and Bessie good morning, loaded the serving trolley, collected fresh linen along the way and set on up the hill to the duke and duchess’s residence.

  She was pouring their tea when a knock came at the door. Rose placed down the teapot and went to answer it, finding Miss Dalton on the verandah.

  ‘Ah, Miss Dalton,’ the duke said from his seat. ‘Do come in.’

  ‘Merry Christmas, Your Grace. I apologise for the intrusion over breakfast,’ Miss Dalton said, ‘but that important telephone call you were waiting on has come through. You can take it in my office.’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ He placed his napkin on the table and rose from his seat. ‘If you will excuse me. I won’t be long,’ he told Rose and the duchess.

  He left and Rose placed the cloche over his breakfast plate to keep it warm.

  ‘He’s organising some additional funding for the station in gratitude for your hospitality,’ the duchess said, sipping her tea.

  ‘That’s very kind. It will be most welcome.’

  ‘If it were up to me, we’d already be on a boat sailing home.’ The duchess smiled wryly. ‘Alas, this place has gotten under his skin. He likes it here, for whatever reason.’

  Rose remained silent as she laid out the toast and spreads for the duchess. She noticed again the incredible green emerald sitting on her ivory décolletage; a rare and precious stone, flawed throughout with natural fissures. It was much like the duchess herself—a tower of strength, yet so delicate she could almost break.

  The duchess caught Rose’s eye and looked down at the stone. ‘My unborn child means everything to me. While I cannot guarantee a girl to pass my emerald to, an heir at least will make my husband happy.’

  ‘He’s the happiest I’ve seen him in a long time, Your Grace.’

  ‘And yet, is it I alone that am making him happy?’

  Rose forced her face into a blank expression.

  ‘Who is she?’ the duchess asked.

&
nbsp; ‘Who do you mean, Your Grace?’

  ‘Who is the other woman my husband lies with?’

  Rose opened her mouth but couldn’t find the words to speak.

  ‘I know he sleeps with another. I know he puts valerian root in my milk before bed. I know there is no way to avoid drinking it, for he sits with me until it is down. I know they are intimate in his room for if I put my face to his sheets the next morning, I can smell the peonies. And yet it’s a smell you don’t wear anymore, so I know it’s not you. Tell me, Rose, who is she?’

  She gulped.

  ‘Is it Nurse Dolly from the hospital? She’s been here a few times with the doctor and I see the way my husband stares at her.’

  ‘It’s not Nurse Dolly, Your Grace.’

  ‘Then tell me,’ the duchess said through gritted teeth. ‘Tell me who he lies with! Tell me who is keeping us here!’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know, Your Grace.’ Of course it was a lie for what else could she say? To give up Bessie would place her and her baby in terrible trouble.

  ‘You are keeping it from me.’

  ‘I don’t know anything.’

  The duchess closed her eyes and took a breath. ‘Protect her if you must, but I will find out.’

  Rose bowed her head.

  The duchess waved her away. ‘Just go.’

  Rose curtsied and retreated to the bedrooms, leaving the duchess to stare blankly into her tea.

  Christmas came and went in a swirl of sticky heat. On New Year’s Eve, the staff were allowed to gather on the wharf and in the cove to watch the fireworks explode. Champagne was passed around and cigarettes were smoked, the staff exuberant as the sky lit up; one year farewelled, another arrived.

  Rose sat with Bessie and the other parlourmaids under Miss Dalton’s watchful eye while Thomas sat with the luggage boys from the autoclave.

  January leeched into February and Spanish Influenza spread worldwide, aided by troop movements. It broke the station containment lines, infecting the Sydney populous as the world faced its worse pandemic since the black plague.

  Despite all this, in their own private sanctuary high up on the cliff, Rose made plans with Thomas for the future. She was six months pregnant with a growing stomach that she hid behind her maternity corset during the day. At night, after fourteen hours on her feet and pushing the trolley up and down the hill in the scorching heat, she would slip the corset off, feeling her stomach release.

  She had grown fiercely protective of her unborn child in ways she couldn’t put into words. She saw those same feelings reflected in Thomas whenever he placed his cheek to her stomach to feel their child move beneath it. She even saw it in Bessie, catching her in moments of contemplation, a soft smile on her face, a hand on her stomach.

  In early March, as the weather started to cool again, heralding the arrival of autumn, Rose was lying in bed while Thomas cleaned up after supper.

  ‘You didn’t eat much, my Rose,’ he said, dusting crumbs off the table.

  Rose shifted on the mattress. ‘I feel uncomfortable.’

  Thomas sat on the edge of the bed and reached for her hand. ‘Uncomfortable because baby elbows and knees are digging into you?’

  ‘More like an intense backache.’

  He gave her a worried look.

  ‘Don’t fret, my love. I’ve had it all day. The matron said I would feel aches and pains like this.’

  Thomas dimmed the oil lamp and climbed into bed, holding her close. After some time, she felt his breath slow and noticed the moment he dropped off to sleep.

  She lay next to him trying to get comfortable but an hour later, the pain had moved from her back to her abdomen—a tightening sensation across her middle which made her stomach turn rock hard. It took her breath away and she rolled over and gently shook Thomas.

  He woke looking dazed. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘It hurts.’

  He sat up. ‘What hurts?’

  ‘My stomach, my back. Everywhere.’

  ‘Should I warm some towels for you?’

  The pain intensified and she couldn’t reply.

  ‘Rose, you don’t look well. Tell me what to do.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Did the matron say if this was normal?’

  ‘She said I might experience false labour pains but not to worry.’ She lay back down on the bed and Thomas placed a hand on her stomach, gently stroking it. After several deep breaths, the pain released its grip on her.

  Thomas watched her closely, eyes never straying. ‘Are you still suffering?’

  ‘It’s not as bad now. It comes and goes.’

  He looked relieved. ‘Try to get some sleep and at first light, I’ll walk you down to the hospital.’

  She nodded and closed her eyes, but she couldn’t sleep. Ten minutes later, the intense pain was back and she gripped Thomas’s shoulder tightly. ‘Something’s wrong. I don’t think it’s meant to feel like this.’

  He climbed out of bed and relit the oil lamp. ‘Come, get dressed. I’ll take you to the matron now.’

  ‘It’s two in the morning.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  Rose gulped, mortified. ‘Oh dear, I think I’ve soiled myself.’

  He cast the lamp light over the bed and let out a gasp. ‘Rose, my darling, don’t look.’

  But it was too late. She glanced down and saw a dark red patch on the front of her shift, saw its stickiness seeping through the sheets to the mattress. She let out a groan as the pain ripped through her again, across her stomach and down her back and legs.

  She couldn’t remember much after that. So acute was the pain, she was only vaguely aware of Thomas collecting her in his arms and hurrying out the door.

  He trotted down the path with her, Rose catching glimpses of the moon in the sky as she curled up in his arms in agony, praying that her baby would be okay, knowing that it was far too soon to deliver at seven months.

  They reached the perimeter of the Hospital Precinct and Thomas hurried past a stunned guard who didn’t try to stop them. He carried her past the tents and confused looks of the patients, his arms straining under her weight. He carried her straight to the nurses and doctors’ quarters.

  Placing her down on the verandah, he rapped sharply on the matron’s door.

  The matron answered, struggling into a robe. ‘Mr Van Cleeve. It’s two in the morning.’

  ‘Help us!’ he cried.

  Rose was on her knees doubled over in pain. She heard them talking, the matron asking what had happened and Thomas saying she’s in pain, there’s blood, the baby’s coming!

  In one swift motion, Thomas collected her again in his arms and the matron told him to go via the back door into the maternity ward and she would call for the doctor.

  Rose was placed on a bed, a light turned on in her eyes. Thomas was next to her but was shooed away by the matron.

  ‘Thomas!’ she called out, feeling his hand leave hers.

  ‘You have to go, Mr Van Cleeve. Doctor Holland and I will take care of this.’

  She heard Thomas protest, heard the matron insist, felt the doctor push her shift up and then spread her legs. She struggled against him, swore at him and cried out in agony.

  ‘Hold her legs down, Matron!’

  ‘Rose, please stay calm!’

  ‘Get the restraints for goodness’ sake. Hold her down!’

  But she didn’t feel the restraints around her ankles. Instead she felt something sharp sting her arm, cold fluid filling her body, then time slipped. She faded with it and blacked out.

  Rose heard the voices long before she was aware of her own consciousness. Eyes closed, vision black, but voices in the room.

  ‘Did you get the entire placenta, Doctor?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  There was shuffling, the sound of instruments hitting a steel dish, a sharp smell of alcohol in the air.

  ‘Thomas.’ Rose could hear her own garbled speech as though through someone else�
��s ears. Her throat was parched. She felt a hand on her arm.

  ‘There now, child. Just rest.’ It was the matron’s voice.

  Rose felt tugging between her legs, then she was being wiped with something wet. The intense pain in her body was gone, replaced with cramping. Her stomach! Her hands reached up and grabbed where her swollen abdomen should have been but found a deflated mound instead.

  ‘My baby!’ she said, forcing her eyes open and trying to sit up. ‘Where’s my baby?’

  There was a soothing hand on her forehead and gentle force on her shoulder, encouraging her back down. ‘Just lie still and sleep. You need to rest.’

  Rose couldn’t hang on any longer. Everything tilted again.

  When Rose awoke, the sky outside was indigo and the sun was falling steadily towards the horizon.

  She looked around the room. She was alone in the small maternity ward at the back of the hospital. There were no nurses or doctors around and she couldn’t see the matron.

  Swallowing through a dry mouth, she recalled the pain she had felt in the early hours of the morning, the way Thomas had carried her fifteen minutes without halting, all the way to the Hospital Precinct.

  She vaguely recalled being placed on the bed, Thomas being ushered from her side, the sharp, cold steel in her arm injecting a sedative so strong it must have knocked her out for the entire day.

  Her hand fluttered to her stomach, but she found nothing there but lumpy flesh, a gaping emptiness. Where was her baby?

  There was shuffling in the matron’s office next door, then she materialised through a doorway into the maternity ward. ‘Rose Porter, you’re awake.’

  Doctor Holland followed, carrying a small notebook.

  Rose struggled onto her elbows. ‘Where’s my baby?’

  ‘There now, Rose, lay back down,’ Matron Cromwell soothed.

  ‘Where’s my baby?’ Rose asked again, panicked.

  Matron Cromwell and Doctor Holland exchanged a look.

  ‘Rose,’ the matron said, ‘you went into premature labour. Your baby was already with the angels when born.’